Several years ago, I sat in a Taco Bell with my three-year-old “wild child” son and my one-year-old daughter. A sweet older woman came up to me and said, “You’ve got your hands full with that one,” nodding to my son. I gave her a slight smile, not sure what to say—though her voice wasn’t laced with judgment. Instead, her face lit up as she recalled her own ‘spirited’ son, though he was now well into adulthood.
That night after the kids had gone to bed, I went to my computer and started writing—an urge I hadn’t felt in years. I didn’t want to forget how my stomach turned in knots at lunch. How it felt like everyone’s eyes were on me as I chased my son across the gray tile floors, worrying my baby would fall out of the high chair when I turned my back to her.
